


Let Yourself Be Loved

by KCKenobi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hurt/Comfort, Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan Kenobi Gets a Hug, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Mess, Padawan Anakin Skywalker, Protective Anakin Skywalker, Protective Qui-Gon Jinn, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23626135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KCKenobi/pseuds/KCKenobi
Summary: When he's at his worst, Obi-Wan would rather be alone than let anyone see him vulnerable - most of all, Anakin.But when a migraine leaves him helpless, Obi-Wan decides that maybe being alone isn't the answer. Maybe it's alright to just let himself be loved.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 32
Kudos: 550





	Let Yourself Be Loved

“...I mean, come on, Master. You’ve seen me with a lightsaber – I’m good!”

“Mhm,” Obi-Wan muttered.

“It just doesn’t make any sense. And everyone was watching. Like, _everyone_. I’m never going to live this down.”

“Mmm.”

Anakin didn’t seem to notice Obi-Wan was tuning him out. Thank the Force, too – the way his headache had been steadily worsening, facing his padawan’s wrath was the last thing he needed. As Anakin paced the kitchen, practically denting the floor with his heavy footsteps, Obi-Wan stirred the pot of soup on the stovetop. Had he been like this at 19 years old? Goodness, he hoped not. Poor Qui-Gon. He silently begged his old master to forgive him, had he ever displayed this degree of petulance.

Anakin finally stopped pacing long enough to pull out a chair at the table. As the chair legs scraped the floor, Obi-Wan fought the urge to massage his temples. Everything was too kriffing loud – even the sound of boiling soup grated against his skin. As Anakin’s jabbering faded back into his consciousness, that too chafed him.

“She’s never beaten me before. Nobody beats me.” Anakin kicked his feet onto the kitchen table. “She must’ve cheated.”

And that got Obi-Wan’s attention. Headache or not, this was a teaching moment.

“Anakin...”

“I’m serious!”

“Anakin! Mind your feelings, young one. It was just sparring. A Jedi meets defeat with humility.”

“I am humble. I just know my own power.”

“But must you make sure everyone _else_ knows it, too?” Obi-Wan turned the burner off and put a lid on the pot. “Honestly, Anakin. You needn’t be this cocky.”

“Well, _you_ needn’t be this critical.”

Ah, yes. So it began.

_One of these days_ , Obi-Wan thought with longing, _we’ll get through a meal without an argument_. He sighed and dropped the stirrer in the sink. _Or at least we’ll make it until the food is on the table._

“I’m only trying to guide you, padawan. You’ll face bigger losses in life than this one. Trust me.”

He was vaguely aware of Anakin muttering something under his breath, but it didn’t register. In fact, nothing was registering – as he reached into the cabinet for dishes, Obi-Wan’s vision went blurry. He faltered, bracing himself on the kitchen counter.

Blinking, unsteady, Obi-Wan waited for the world to return to focus. It did, finally…but something still didn’t feel right. _He_ didn’t feel right. His head was pounding even harder now, and his stomach was doing flips. He grabbed two bowls and began to pour the soup, but the sight of it made him nauseous.

Anakin leaned in eagerly as the food landed in front of him, irritation temporarily forgotten. But he paused mid-spoonful when he noticed Obi-Wan wasn’t sitting down – he was gripping the edge of the table with white knuckles, staring somewhere over Anakin’s head.

“What?” Anakin snapped, “Waiting for me to bless the meal?”

Obi-Wan swallowed the sting of bile in his throat. “Actually, I’m not too hungry. You must be famished after that duel – I’m sure you can finish both bowls on your own.”

A question passed through Anakin’s eyes, but he didn’t ask it. “I mean, I guess, but…”

Obi-Wan didn’t stick around long enough to hear him finish.

He barely made it to the bed before the room started to spin. Sinking onto the mattress, he sat with his head cradled in his hands. _Not again, not again…_ But maybe this one wouldn’t be so bad. Not if he kicked it now, before it got bad. Well, before it got _worse_.

Obi-Wan hated pain-killers. They dulled the Force. But so did a migraine, and the healers had given him the little pill bottle for a reason. When he was fairly certain he could stand, Obi-Wan pushed himself up and into the ‘fresher.

But he’d scarcely opened the cabinet when black spots appeared before his eyes.

_Okay, Kenobi. You’re alright. Breathe. Center yourself._

He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bathtub, gripping the sides. Pain seared his skull.

_Come on. Get up. The bottle is right above the sink, you’re nearly there…_

He hoisted himself up to stand.

But suddenly his knees were hitting the tile floor. His hands were sliding down the side of the sink as he practically melted to the ground.

He couldn’t get up.

One thought comforted him as the room spun without relent: _At least I’m alone_. He couldn’t bear the thought of someone seeing him so pathetically indisposed. Even Qui-Gon had only witnessed an episode a handful of times, and those had been accidental. He was inexperienced at shielding his thoughts and feelings, then. Now, he was an expert.

An expert who couldn’t, at present, grab a simple pill bottle from a cabinet.

With a shuddering breath, Obi-Wan considered his options. The painkillers were just meters above him, but they may as well have been in the Outer Rim. He couldn’t make it back to bed on his own, either. There was really only one thing he _could_ do.

He just really, really didn’t want to do it.

But with a grimace, he swallowed his pride – or was that bile? – and opened his mouth to call Anakin.

The sound that came out wasn’t more than a whisper. There was no way his voice carried all the way to the kitchen.

 _Fine, then. Force forbid this should be easy._ He didn’t want Anakin to feel how much pain he was in – or his embarrassment, for that matter, at how pathetic he must look. But what else could he do?

Obi-Wan lowered his mental shields.

_Was he really that annoyed with me?_ Anakin wondered. _I know we were arguing, but he didn’t even ask me to save his plate. That man can_ eat _, usually. Almost as much as I can._

He was finishing off the first bowl of soup and was about to reach for the second when the Force practically imploded – _pain, and sickness, and humiliation, and dizziness_...

The spoon clattered into the dish as it slipped from his hand.

“Master?”

Anakin flung open Obi-Wan’s bedroom door without bothering to knock.

_“Anakin…”_

He followed the muffled call to the closed ‘fresher door and turned the knob.

Anakin didn’t know what he expected to see, but certainly not this – Obi-Wan was curled on the floor on his side. One hand lay across his forehead, the other limp against the bathmat.

“Master!” Anakin dropped to his knees beside him. “What’s wrong? You should’ve told me you weren’t well! I can call the healers –”

“No, no. No healers,” he murmured. “Pill bottle.”

He gestured vaguely upward, toward the cabinet above the sink.

Speechless, Anakin opened it. Pushing aside some toothpaste and shaving cream, he dug around until he found…yes, there it was, hiding in the back. A little prescription pill bottle, one Anakin had never seen before. He turned it over to read the dosage on the side:

_Kenobi, Obi-Wan_

_Take 1 tablet by mouth every four hours as needed for severe migraine pain_

Wait…Obi-Wan got migraines?

Anakin shook his head in painful bewilderment. How did he not know that? Obi-Wan was his best friend. He knew the punchline to every joke he’d ever told, how he took his tea, exactly how he felt about this or that politician. He knew every nuance of Obi-Wan’s facial expressions, could tell the difference between an _I’m irritated at you_ look and an _I’m irritated in general_ look, knew that a slight bounce in his knee meant he was either worried or needed the ‘fresher. He knew Obi-Wan. Probably better than he’d ever known anyone.

But he didn’t know about this. The thought left a knot in his stomach as he poured one of the pills into his palm.

When Anakin returned to the ‘fresher floor a few moments later with the pill, a glass of water, and a bowl of soup, Obi-Wan didn’t look any better. He had both arms over his head now, obscuring his face from view. Anakin lowered himself to the floor again, resting a hand on Obi-Wan’s arm.

“You should eat before you take this,” he said. “You haven’t had anything since breakfast, and meds might hurt your stomach.”

Obi-Wan groaned. “Can’t hurt much more than this.”

“Please?” When he didn’t answer, Anakin set the bowl down beside him. “Well, you’ll at least have to sit up to swallow the pill. Here.”

He helped Obi-Wan into a sitting position. They both leaned against the bathtub, and Obi-Wan hugged his knees to his chest.

Anakin handed him the pill and the water. But Obi-Wan’s hands trembled with the weight, and the glass nearly slipped from his grasp. Anakin quickly wrapped his hands around Obi-Wan’s, helping him raise the liquid to his lips.

“There you go,” Anakin whispered. “Now let’s try some food.”

Obi-Wan shook his head before letting it drop to Anakin’s shoulder. Anakin tensed at the touch, then eased into it and slipped an arm around his back. Obi-Wan was sweating through his shirt, and Anakin could feel the heat radiating from his body. His damp auburn hair stuck to his forehead.

“Sorry,” Obi-Wan murmured.

“Don’t be. What can I do to help?”

He shook his head gently.

“They usually... It’ll go away on its own.”

“Usually? Hold on. How often does this happen?”

Obi-Wan didn’t reply. Instead – and, Anakin was sure, to his extreme embarrassment – a whimper escaped him. He sat forward, untangling himself from Anakin’s arms.

“’Gonna be sick.”

He knelt before the toilet and, as predicted, started to heave.

Anakin grimaced. So much for keeping the painkillers down. He knelt forward too, and before he even realized what he was doing, started rubbing circles on Obi-Wan’s back.

_Huh._ He’d almost forgotten – his mom used to do that, all those years ago. Whenever he was sick, she’d stay with him and trace shapes over his spine, writing her love into his sweat-soaked clothes. As his fingers grazed Obi-Wan’s back, Anakin found himself wondering if anyone had ever cared for Obi-Wan the way his mother had cared for him. Had Master Qui-Gon? Did Obi-Wan have a mother, somewhere? He knew the Jedi saw family as a form of attachment. Obi-Wan had grown up alone, never truly knowing the love of somebody who would, without question, put his wellbeing above everything. The Jedi believed it was better that way. Maybe it was. But as he looked at Obi-Wan, who was now laying his head on the edge of the toilet seat, the thought broke his heart.

Maybe his memory of her had grown faint, but the love of Anakin’s mother echoed through him even now. No Jedi Code could banish it from his mind. So as he cared for Obi-Wan, he let it pour through his fingertips – the echo of love. The kind of love that doesn’t waver, doesn’t leave, doesn’t need to be earned. The kind of love that would remain, even when the memory did not.

Obi-Wan sat up, running a hand over his eyes as the room continued to spin. Anakin’s face was the only thing his eyes could bring into focus. His padawan’s expression made him cringe – he was looking at him like a youngling. _Alright – this has gone far enough. He brought you the painkillers. Now get him out of here, before the damage to your pride is irreparable._

“You should leave now,” Obi-Wan said. “Go back to dinner.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut. “Anakin…”

“You honestly expect me to leave you here on the floor?”

“Please, just –”

“No.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to protest again, but a new wave of dizziness silenced him. He just wanted to be alone – was that so much to ask? Even when he was a padawan, he’d had a _little_ privacy when it got this bad. Qui-Gon at least had the decency to leave him to sleep it off. No such luck with Anakin. Ironically, he found himself longing for Qui-Gon’s occasional aloofness.

And that’s when the memory came.

Delirium blurred the image in his head. But there it was – long hair dangling in his face. He felt arms around him, the rhythm of footsteps rocking his head against the coarse fabric of Qui-Gon’s tunic.

Okay, maybe his master hadn’t been distant _all_ the time.

_“We’re almost there,”_ Qui-Gon breathed. _“You can lie down. The healers said darkness and sleep will help.”_

Obi-Wan didn’t remember responding, but he must have, because Qui-Gon chuckled.

 _“No, no one’s seen me carrying you. Your ego is safe.”_ The space around him got darker. _“Here we are.”_

The next thing Obi-Wan knew, there was a pillow under his head. Qui-Gon was sitting at the edge of the bed, a hand running through his hair.

 _“Sleep. You can be strong tomorrow,”_ he whispered. _“For now, just let yourself be loved.”_

Obi-Wan must’ve fallen asleep after that, because the memory faded. As he rested his head against the toilet now, he could almost hear his old master’s affirmations.

But no. Qui-Gon wasn’t here. It was Anakin next to him, leaking worry into the Force. _So much worry, too – good gracious,_ Obi-Wan thought. _Will he ever learn to mind his emotions?_ And anyway, his padawan really shouldn’t be here. He’d spent the past ten years making sure Anakin never saw him when it got this bad. Pity to ruin his dignity now.

Releasing a shaky sigh, he laid back down on the floor, this time with his head resting on something soft. It took him a second to realize it was Anakin’s lap.

Okay, _now_ his dignity was officially ruined.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to...I’ll move,” Obi-Wan murmured.

“No, no. Your head already hurts. Laying it on the hard floor isn’t going to help. I’ll be your pillow for a little while.”

Obi-Wan sighed in resignation, easing into the position. He tried to thank him but the words didn’t come. The pain in his head stabbed harder and harder, and he bit back a whimper.

Anakin tried to distract him.

“You know what this reminds me of?” When Obi-Wan didn’t reply, he forced a grin. “The hoi-broth incident.”

That made Obi-Wan grumble. “We agreed...never to speak of it.”

The gentle jest made Anakin’s smile turn genuine. “At least this time you’re not about to cause a diplomatic disaster.”

“Wasn’t my fault,” he mumbled. “Didn’t know...I was allergic.”

“And to think you lectured _me_ about proper etiquette. ‘This is a delicate situation, my padawan, and we must proceed delicately,’” Anakin said, faking Obi-Wan’s accent with excessive high-pitch. “Well, you weren’t so delicate when you –”

“Don’t say it.”

“...threw up in the Viceroy’s lap –”

“No!”

Anakin was laughing for real now, and even Obi-Wan had a smirk pushing onto his face.

“In my defense...” he said, “I did _not_ throw up. The hoi-broth made my throat constrict. When I started coughing I simply...spit it out.”

Anakin snorted. “Of course, Master.”

“Glad you find it hilarious that I nearly choked to death.”

Anakin relaxed into the levity of the conversation. Maybe that meant things were looking up – at least, he hoped so. He wasn’t sure what he would do otherwise. Because really, this was all backwards. It was usually Obi-Wan who did the caring and comforting, and he who needed it.

Well, he’d thought so. As Anakin’s eyes drifted to the abandoned pill bottle on the sink, he realized that couldn’t be true at all. The bottle was nearly empty.

How many times had Obi-Wan gone through this alone?

Glancing downward again, he stared at the pallor of Obi-Wan’s face and noticed he’d started to shiver. His tunic was damp with sweat and his hair clung to his forehead, the moisture certainly making him cold.

“Are you done throwing up?”

Obi-Wan sucked in a shaky breath. “Still nauseous. But there couldn’t possibly be anything left in my stomach.”

“Then do you want to try moving to your bed?”

Obi-Wan grunted. “I don’t…I don’t know if I can.”

“Not by yourself. Here.” He threaded an arm around Obi-Wan’s waist. “I’ve got you.”

The journey was slow, their steps laborious. Anakin was nearly ready to carry him the rest of the way, if not for the knowledge that his master would probably kill him for trying. When they finally made it, Obi-Wan leaned forward to cradle his head again.

“Could you...?”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Anakin was already digging through his drawers, and pulled out one of Obi-Wan’s clean nightshirts. Obi-Wan peeled the sweaty fabric from his skin and handed it over, trading Anakin for the dry one.

“Thank you.”

Anakin just nodded. His eyes were fixed somewhere far away, his mind back on the near-empty pill bottle in the ‘fresher.

He knew he should save this conversation for later. Obi-Wan was in no shape to do anything other than sleep. But he couldn’t stop himself.

“You know you can always count on me, right?”

Obi-Wan pulled back the sheets to his bed, swinging his legs up into it. “Of course I know that.”

“And you can always ask me for help.”

“I believe I just did. Several times,” he said, voice coarse. “Though I wish that weren’t the case.”

Anakin sat down on the edge of the bed. “See, that’s what I mean. You don’t want anyone to help you, even when you need it. How long was it going to be before you told me about this?”

“Anakin, please. Need I remind you my head hurts, rather tremendously?”

“Sorry. I know.”

Obi-Wan leaned back into the pillows, the grimace on his face deepening. He was still shivering despite the blankets pulled up to his chin. Anakin’s eyes traced the creases in his forehead. This man had taken down a Sith, taught the Chosen One, stopped wars with nothing but willpower and words. The world saw him as the Negotiator, the hero, the legend. Even Anakin had let himself believe that his master was superhuman, somehow. That he was indestructible. That he was more than just a man.

Obi-Wan was always a human _doing_. Rarely did anyone remember he was only a human _being_.

“Just…next time?” Anakin’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Let me be there.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I know. But you don’t have to be alone.”

Anakin pulled his feet up onto the bed. “I know you feel like you always have to be, you know...everything. For everyone. But sometimes…sometimes it’s enough to just…”

His voice trailed off, but Obi-Wan heard an older, deeper voice finish the thought.

_“Just let yourself be loved.”_

Anakin raised a hand toward Obi-Wan’s head, easing a sleep-suggestion into his mind.

Obi-Wan yawned. The last thing he remembered was Anakin’s head melting into the pillow beside his. 

Well, that, and one final, lingering thought:

_Perhaps he’s right – I don’t have to be alone, after all._

Half-awake and half-dreaming, his mind muddled with pain, images played on his eyelids like a holovid: Qui-Gon, carrying him when he was too weak to stand, his voice fatherly and kind. Anakin, guiding the glass of water to his lips, slipping an arm around his shoulders to keep him upright. Staying, even when he tried to push him away.

_Perhaps I never have been._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment if you feel like it - I love getting feedback!!
> 
> The "hoi-broth incident" is an idea I got from the Revenge of the Sith novelization, where Anakin mentions that Obi-Wan is allergic to it and it caused some diplomatic incident. I wrote up a full version of the story in my fic “The Hoi-Broth Incident.”
> 
> Also - I'm on tumblr now! Come say hello! [ KCKenobi ](https://kckenobi.tumblr.com/)


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